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A brave came and fetched me, dragging me by my bound wrists towards the chief and forcing me to kneel in front of him. He sat regally on the stump that I used to hammer the blooms, a feathered spear in each hand.“You run gauntlet,” the chief said in Mataoka’s tongue. “You win, you make us iron. You lose, we sell you to Frenchman.”I tried to read Mataoka’s face; she had heard this, but she was unreadable. Quickly five braves came over and stood in a row and I was made to stand beyond them, my hands untied, facing the sitting chief. I glanced back at my wife for encouragement. I saw a single tear trickle down her brave, hard face.I felt a spear prod me in the arse. It made me jump and move forward, but it didn’t break the skin. It was just to get me to go through their gauntlet.The five Indians were far enough apart that they could swing their clubs and sticks without hitting one another, but quite close together, all the same. There was a clear line of them, and a definite path I had. I pray she can't hear my heartbeat thudding in the confined box. My hand grips yours. We want nothing more than to crush our lips together and fill the mirrored space with breathless panting and the heat of desire, but we have to wait. Four agonising floors in the world's slowest lift until the woman steps out. Until we're alone.The moment the doors slide shut you're on me. Kissing. Clutching. Sighing. I know the unblinking eye of the security camera is there, but fuck it: our needs transcend decency. The kiss is something else. Animalistic and raw. Too bad it can only last a few short floors before the lift's muted ping announces our arrival. We fly apart, faces flushed, lips pink, sparkles in our eyes.I practically drag you down the crazily carpeted corridor behind me, fumble the keycard and bundle you inside, the door barely closing before you're slammed back against its inside, nothing but our heavy breathing and hands swishing across fabric greeting the silent room bathed in.
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